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The silver looked darker on her—more iron than the bright tinsel she’d initially thought it was—and the paillettes looked almost like scales. The color made her blue and green eyes stand out against her skin like jewels.
“This is the one I want,” Lila said, stepping out of the dressing room.
Her mother looked at her and sighed. “It’s a little short,” she said. “And shiny. Shiny can be vulgar. Maybe you should try on the light pink. Pink is youthful and very elegant when it’s on the beige side.”
“No,” Lila said. “This is perfect.”
Lila loved the dress. It said just what she wanted to say. It was the precise color of her father’s favorite gun.
* * *
Barron slung his arm over her shoulders casually as they walked down the concrete steps.
Lila stopped to take her shoes off before she stepped onto the wet sand. He had to let go of her, and she spun away from him, inhaling deeply. The crash of the waves sent up a faint salt spray that dusted her skin.
“You look really nice tonight,” he said, coming close again. His gloved hand rested at the curve of her back, the swell of her hip.
She froze for a second, then forced herself to relax. Being nervous was silly.
“Thanks,” she said. “You do too.”
She’d known Barron for years, after all. He’d spent his summers in the same little town that she did. She’d even had a hopeless crush on his younger brother, Cassel, but Cassel never asked her out, not even after she’d paraded around in front of him in nothing but a big baggy shirt and underwear, with glittery, smoky eye makeup.
So there she was with Barron, who had asked her and who had his license. Who was charming. Who was clearly, technically, the better boyfriend. The one her friends would be jealous about.
And they’d eaten pizza and joked around on the first part of the date, which was fun. And now they were taking a romantic walk on the beach. The moon was hidden behind clouds, but there was enough light to make the breaking waves shimmer as they crashed on the shore.
“You want to sit on the jetty?” he asked her.
This was the exact kind of thing people were supposed to do on dates.
“Okay,” she said and followed him onto the rocks. As she walked out, waves broke higher and higher, in plumes of foam. The surf raged all around them, trickling out through flooded tide pools.
She turned to say something when he took her chin and kissed her. His lips were soft and for a moment, everything seemed perfect. She wound her arms around his neck. But then he was drawing her down to the rock, his hands running over the sides of her legs. And she felt thrilled and scared all at the same time.
It happened so fast. His tongue was inside her mouth and their bodies were pressed together, his legs between hers. Her head rocked back against cold stone.
“Uh,” she said, pulling away slightly.
He looked at her in bafflement and she felt the shame of not knowing what she was supposed to do, of being so much younger than him, crash over her like one of the waves.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, scrambling to sit up. She tried to think of something else to say, something casual and sophisticated.
He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. “We should go back.” Standing, he offered her his hand, helping her to her feet.
“We don’t have to stop,” she said uncertainly.
He shook his head. “It’s getting late anyway.”
Lila was quiet on the way to the car and then on the drive home. He talked the whole way, cheerily, but she couldn’t focus on what he was saying.
She was wondering if this was what love felt like. She was wondering if he would ask her out again and what they would do on that date. She hoped he would ask her, but she was already dreading it.
* * *
Once, Lila Zacharov was in love with a boy with hair as black as spilled ink and eyes as dark as coffee. She would trace his name on her skin, over and over, write it in the condensation of her breath on panes of glass, scrawl it on the bottoms of her feet with the tip of her nail, like she was casting a spell.
